The Eye of the Beholder
by Heartbeat101
Summary: "Everything we hear is an opinion, not a fact. Everything we see is a perspective, not the truth." Alex tries to find herself.


The Eye of the Beholder

Summary: "Everything we hear is an opinion, not a fact. Everything we see is a perspective, not the truth." Alex tries to find herself by looking outward.

--

When people look at her, what do they see? She knows what they see first: beauty. She wouldn't go so far as to call herself runway material, but she knows she's physically attractive, at least. So she doesn't mind if their eyes linger on her body. But what do they see next?

She asked Kate—once, just once—what Kate thought of when she saw her. Kate pursed her lips, and actually considered the question.

"Secrets," she replied finally. "I look at you and I think of meetings in dark alleys, or in back rooms. Whispered conversations and coded notes written into postcards without addresses."

Alex stared, stunned into silence. Kate tucked a lock of straight, dark brown hair behind her ear and turned her piercing, pale blue eyes away. "It's the reason you'll never make it an honest profession. It's what makes you different from Neal."

No, Alex thought as she watched Kate walk away, the difference was that Neal took more care to hide his secrets. Even, it seemed, from Kate. But Alex could see it in the way he moved, careful, guarded. The way his eyes flicked quickly from side to side, assessing potential dangers and memorizing potential escape routes. She could see him doing it because she was doing the same thing.

--

But what Kate sees is not what the world sees, she realized when she met another of Neal's friends. She and Neal had gotten split up doing reconnaissance work at the art museum, so after she got her information she doubled back to meet him at his apartment.

And was surprised to find, not Kate, but a small balding man in thick framed glasses instead. He recognized her, greeted her by name, and offered her a glass of wine.

Three drinks later Neal still wasn't back, and they'd moved on to harder liquor. Moz was easy to talk to, and, inevitably, the question slipped out.

"What was my first impression of you?" Moz raised his eyebrows and looked her up and down. "Smart. You look like a smart girl—wouldn't leave you alone with the good silver, of course, but I'd hire you as my stock broker."

Which was vastly different than anything she'd ever heard before (well, not the silverware part) and it gave her pause.

"Interesting," she murmured, and then there was the scratch of a key entering a lock, and the creak of a door being opened. Neal saw them together on the couch, a bottle of vodka half empty on the floor and a ridiculous foreign film without subtitles blaring on the television, and rolled his eyes.

"Of course."

Alex smiled at him, and got up, a little unsteady on her feet, to give him the key card and floorplans she…obtained, at the museum.

--

The next time she ran into someone because of Neal, it was an accident. On her part, at least. She sat in the corner booth at Starbucks, in a black wig and red boots, and didn't even spot him until he sat down across from her and plopped down a vanilla latte.

She looked up sharply, and he gestured to the drink. "I just want to talk. That's all."

She took the latte and sniffed it suspiciously, but took a wary sip. It burned her tongue, and she winced and set it back down on the table. "So talk."

She recognized the man as being Neal's FBI contact, or handler, or whatever. But he wasn't wearing a gun, and hadn't pulled out the handcuffs, so she tilted her head to listen.

He stared at her, brown eyes intense. "I know you're working with Neal to find the music box."

He paused, and she waited. What did he want her to say? "That's great. I hope they're paying you overtime for the extra investigation."

He gave her a look out of the corner of his eye, and the corners of his mouth curled with exasperation. "I want you to stop. This is a warning. If you and Neal try to steal the music box, I will try to stop you, and you'll both face serious prison time." He leaned back. "Think about that before you do anything rash."

She smiled. "Very intimidating. You'll make a good father one day."

He blinked, looking flabbergasted. She took a moment to enjoy the expression, before continuing, "But—Burke, is it?—I won't be intimidated so easily. You don't become someone like me without a little risk."

He leveled a hard look at her. "And who are you?"

She couldn't resist. "What do you think?"

"Of you?" He glared, "You're a troublemaker. You don't know your limits, and you have no problem dragging Neal along with you."

She stood, thanked him for the coffee, and left. The words hit too close to home.

--

What did people see when they looked at her? She still wasn't sure. Secrets and shadows, cleverness and cunning, or dangerous hobbies. Who was she? Maybe all of the above. Maybe she was none of it.

She was a fence who used to be an art thief who found the music box and was helplessly, head over heels in love with Neal Caffrey. But character wasn't just a sum of the facts, built up to protect the more fragile hopes, dreams, and what-ifs; she knew better. Character was built, character was earned, character was not seen through the eyes of a stranger nor bequeathed by a sometimes-enemy.

So _who was Alex_? She didn't know, not for certain, though it was becoming clearer.

But what she _did_ know was that it didn't really matter. In the end, there was really only one opinion she cared about. And that, she thought, as she watched Neal bend over the Italian (Trojan horse) sculpture, was the only one she was too afraid to ask for.

Yet.


End file.
